You are the shit-hill hippie dude wearing the Sprouts employee shirt who was coming out of the Surf City Collective Building around 3:30 p.m. on a recent Sunday. I politely opened the door so you and the lady in front of you could leave. She said, “Thank you.” You said, “Punk is dead,” with a bitch attitude. What I should've done is slammed the door on your head as you went by or laid into you how punk saved my life, how I made my living from it, traveling the world, playing with punk rock bands. How I own my own business, have two 1964 classic cars—all from punk. Instead, I casually said, “I don't know about that, brother.” I'm a Scorpio and a punk, and I'll take my time, then pay you a visit on my own terms and introduce you to punk by kicking your teeth in. Remember: I know where you work, Sprouts.

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